I'm at home on a cozy, dark, late Sunday afternoon, sipping sixteen year old Lagavulin (one finger, neat). And I haven't forgotten Lux Lotus. I've been preoccupied, work, too often, preparing for a trip to London in early December to attend a black tie affair, thinking about a move in the spring–– I'll give New York another year. Sensible, for now. Which finds us here at the violet hour, as deadlines are set aside, the lights are dimmed low, and I give my thoughts over to musings of pure possibility. Here's my fantasy Christmas list, Santa, baby, if you read me...